


Ghosts

by RembrandtsWife



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama, Holiday: Halloween, M/M, None - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 05:10:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/794288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RembrandtsWife/pseuds/RembrandtsWife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim and Blair celebrate All Hallow's Eve.<br/>This story is a sequel to "Sweet-talk".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> In memory of Alexander, a bird, who died two years ago today, and all of my own dead.
> 
> \--The above note tells me that this story, which was incorporated into AO3 as part of the 852 Prospect upload, was written in 1998. Alexander and his mate Hildegard were the first two bird companions I had.

## Ghosts

by Merri-Todd Webster

Ghosts. Too many of them. 

I've never been much for religion, or rituals of any kind, but this ritual I need. Now more than ever, maybe. 

Sandburg went out almost an hour ago. Helping with a Halloween party for kids who wouldn't otherwise have one, hosted by a friend of his at Rainier. He took advantage of the curly hair and went as Harpo Marx. I had to laugh at the idea of Blair Sandburg _not talking_ for two hours, but he looked, well, cute. 

He won't be back for a while. I have time. 

One thing at a time. Shower and shave, put on comfortable clothes. Open the bottle of Glenfidditch I drink only on this occasion. A triangular bottle, with a picture of a stag on the label. As expensive as it is elegant, but worth it, once in a while. Worth it for this. 

Put the bottle and the glass on the coffee table. Then turn out all the lights. All of them. I can see well enough to get the last few things I need--a candle, some matches, a glass plate. A box of kleenex. 

Finally, light the candle. 

Fill the glass generously. Take a minute to really appreciate the smell of the scotch. I could almost get drunk on the smell alone--deep, dense, smoky. Smell of peat and plaid and glorious defeats. Smell of myth and legend and legendary history. 

There was a time I would have downed a glass for each person I remember, but not any more. One swallow will do. Even if Blair weren't coming home in a few hours, I wouldn't want to be blind-drunk when he gets in. And a Sentinel with a hangover is something no man deserves to cope with, especially a man as giving as Blair. 

So I take a single swallow, roll it around on my tongue, let the smoke rise up through my nose into my brain and mix with the grief. Mama first, and Mama last. Ellen MacKenzie Ellison. I miss you, Mama. The grief never goes away. 

Another swallow, just as harsh and sweet as the first. Piddles, my first dog, run down by a careless driver. The first creature I willingly, knowingly gave my heart to. I didn't know then I wouldn't have her forever. I didn't know then that no love lasts forever. 

A third swallow, buzzing in my brain like a hive of bees. My cousin Aline. Beaten to death by her own husband. I would have gone in there and taken the son of a bitch apart with my teeth, but Dad said, No, it's their business. A man's home is his castle. I couldn't bring myself to go to the funeral. Afraid I might still kill the bastard and toss him on top of Aline's casket. 

A fourth swallow, and my glass is nearly empty. Mrs. Alex Truman. I never found out her first name. She was one of the calls I answered in my first year on the force--another battered woman. We were too late to save her, but we put that fucker she called husband away. 

Pour out more Glenfidditch, 'cause Butch Newburg deserves a full swallow. My Army buddy, comrade in arms.... A real friend. Dishonorably discharged for being gay. Beaten up by guys who had to prove they were better than he was. Died 'cause he wouldn't go to the base hospital. He'd been discharged, after all. 

So many ghosts. So many loves lost, hanging around me. Everything you love disappears, eventually. One way or another, every love means loss. 

And I hate that. And I fight it. I fight it every day. But one night a year, I sit down and face it. With a little Scots courage. 

The guys I knew who died in Viet Nam. The victims of murders I investigated. Old Lady Winson, who died alone and friendless just down the street, four--five years ago, nobody with her but her canary. The canary died, too. 

Me and the dark and the ghosts, and nothing but a bottle of Scotch and a candle to drive them away. They didn't want to die. They didn't want to go. But they had to. And so will Blair, someday. And so will I. 

One more drink for Mama. 

* * *

I get home from the party, and the apartment is dark. 

"Jim?" 

One candle. There's one candle lit, on the coffee table, making a silhouette of my lover's head and shoulders. 

I can smell the Scotch. And I can feel the ghosts. 

We had a great time at the party. I've got a sort of contact high from all this little-kid joie de vivre, all the shrieking and giggles and highly sugared Kool Aid. And I've been nonverbal for two hours, playing Harpo Marx, honking my horn while I chase people, so my tongue is dying to wag. But I can feel the ghosts. 

I put down my paper bag full of candy, take off the floppy hat and the trench coat. "Jim...." 

"Can you feel them?" 

"Yes." 

Moving slowly and quietly as if I'm in a church, a holy place, I come around the end of the couch and sit down. Jim is sitting there, staring at the candle. A half-full glass of Scotch on one knee, and a half-empty bottle of it on the other. There's just enough light for me to see that his face is streaked with tears. 

"All gone, Blair. All gone." 

"I'm here." 

He sighs painfully. "Not forever. Nothing's forever." 

I think about this. "No. But it's real, right now." 

Jim blinks, and more tears flood the shiny tracks that run down to his chin. "Why, man?" 

I take a deep breath. "There's no answer to that." 

"There must be." 

"Did you love them?" 

It takes him a long time to answer. His voice breaks on the one word. "Yes." 

"And they loved you." 

"Yes." 

"Then that's the answer." 

Jim turns his head, finally, to look at me. It's like watching a statue come to life. "Don't leave." 

"I won't. They'll have to take me." 

He starts to make a gesture--stops--fumbles--I take the bottle and set it down on the coffee table. Grip his hand. 

"I'm here. We're together. Love is real--as real as death." Words from the Bible come to me. "'Love is as strong as death, jealousy as cruel as the grave. Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it'. Love is realer." 

"You believe that?" 

"Yes," I say, with conviction. It might be the only thing I believe. 

After a moment, I lean over and kiss his forehead, gently. Letting go of his hand, I get up and go into my bedroom--I still keep stuff there--and come back with another candle. I light my candle from his and put it down on the glass plate. Two candles, side by side. Twice as much heat, twice as much light. 

Then I get my own glass from the cupboard and pour myself a drink. Not much--I sincerely hate scotch. Even good scotch, which this is. 

Sitting down again, I unbutton my shirt, lean back, hold up my glass. 

"My dad. Whoever he is. Just in case." I take a sip and try not to wince too bad. 

"My grandparents, either side." Another sip, and Jim shifts in his place. 

I think for a bit. Jim and the ghosts are waiting. _His_ ghosts. Whom have _I_ loved and lost? 

"Sandburg--who have you lost? Really?" 

Damn, it's uncanny--the way we echo each other's thoughts. I take my biggest taste yet of the whisky and tell him the truth. 

"No one." 

You can't lose someone you love if you don't let yourself love anyone. I've cheated death by not really investing in life. But now I look at Jim, think about the job he does, the job _we_ do, and it really hits me for the first time, the first time since we've become lovers. *He could die*. Any day. _I_ could die--that'd be much easier and more likely. They can sneak up on me, I'm not a Sentinel. 

He could be grieving _me_. 

And what would I do if I had to grieve him? 

When I start crying, he reaches over and pulls me against him. My heart is really his now, dammit. I could lose him. I will lose him, someday, or he'll lose me, and do I really believe that love is stronger than death or flood-- 

He kisses me, on the mouth, warm but not really sexy. And then again, and this time it is sexy, my cock can feel it. Samhain Night, a time to drive away the ghosts with procreation, so you can give birth in harvest-time. Even if you can't procreate, a little wild fucking seems in order. Just on principle. 

But first there's something else I have to do. 

I sit up and push Jim away, gently. I screw up my mouth and drain the glass--nasty, awful, way too expensive shit. Then I clear my throat, lick my lips, think back a long way, and begin to recite the Kaddish, for the dead. 

The ghosts are listening. And so is Jim. 

* * *

end 


End file.
